


Hic Jacet Arthurus

by WonderWafles



Category: Sword at Sunset - Rosemary Sutcliff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 13:57:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10515138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderWafles/pseuds/WonderWafles
Summary: Bedwyr bears the sword of Artos to the sea.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bunn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/gifts).



> In many versions of the Arthurian myth, Sir Bedivere takes Excalibur to return it to the Lady of the Lake, and I thought - hey, that sounds like something heartbreaking to write about! And some post-Roman Britain too, because I love that area of history, also.
> 
> Also, I am very sincerely sorry that these two are all I have - that's entirely my fault. Some things came up, but ultimately it was my responsibility to do these, and I'm sorry. I hope, at least, this is good enough to maybe a little make up for it. (I would be happy to do the other two outside of the contest, too, of course.)

The night was still.

Bedwyr made his way through the tall grasses with an almost perfect quiet, even though he was not hunting. It would feel blasphemous to be louder than the world, now.

It’s hard to tell where he is. Bedwyr thinks that this is rather un-soldier-like, but he can’t help it. There are no markers here, where the old Roman world ended.

As he walked, he thought.

There was much to think about. The cool breeze, just barely noticeable, touched his face like a lover. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him.

There is an old Roman station not far from here, he knows. An aqueduct used to run near it, but it had collapsed into great chunks of marble that looked like great corpses. The station was made of hardier stuff, he hoped.

Unconsciously, he touched the hilt of the sword he carried with him, and almost retreated in shame. It was a fine sword, the finest he’d ever seen, but it was not his.

The station was intact, much to his relief. He settled in to it with weariness in his bones, and ate the strips of meat he’d saved from his last hunt with machine-like precision. 

He didn’t like stopping. Stopping meant he had to think.

He touched Artos’ sword again. If the world were fair, he thinks, the metal would burn at his touch. Instead, it’s cold and a bit worn and in need of sharpening.

When sleep comes for him, it is restless and dream-filled.

He woke, but didn’t leave the garrison just yet. In truth, the thought of another day’s walk wearied him. He hunted the morning away, and breakfasted only when the sun was upright in the sky. 

He was growing closer, he knew. His closest friend’s sword would burden him for not much longer. This thought is almost a panic, and he clasps the sword’s hilt like a comfort-toy until it washes over him again. What he is doing must be done. He had promised this, and he will not break another promise.

The sun over Britannia is stunningly bright. He falls to thinking again.

He thought about duty.

He does a wretched duty here, today. As he walked through the sun-blessed fields and the forests of secrets, he bore that in mind. 

Was it an honor, to do this? To be trusted by Artos, amongst all others, to bear his sword to the lake? Even after his betrayal?

Or was it yet more mockery? The man who’d doomed his king, taking the last remnant of that hope to be thrown away forever. If it was irony, a punishment from God, it fit like a glove.

He thought about Guenhumara.

He tries not to think about her, these days. Although, he supposes that that isn’t fair. She’d betrayed Artos too, yes, but he’d enabled it, cooperated in it, tempted her away from him and into his arms. Perhaps the cloud of self-hate above him couldn’t bear any more anger, any more blame, or else it would collapse on him like the wrath of heaven.

Artos had forgiven him, yes. Had given him his sword from his dying hand, and told him to cast it into the ocean. And so here he was.

What then?

What more could he do? He had been Artos’ companion for so long, it felt sacrilegious to be anything else. Even with Guenhumara…

Oh. Guilt for that, too. If he was going to betray his leader, he supposed, he should have at least made his wife happy. Instead, she had secluded herself. Why should she not? If he were all that was in the world, he would have locked himself away, too, and asked God for refuge.

He felt a little better.

The Isle of Apples was bigger than he’d remembered it. Perhaps there was more time to appreciate it, now.

It wasn’t long, though, before the ocean loomed before him. He thought, if he looked far enough, he might be able to see the rest of Britannia over the spray and dark gray sky that hung over it, shroud-like. He hefted the sword in his hands, and thought again.

Could he do it? Could he throw it into the ocean? There was nothing stopping him, literally or otherwise. Artos’ time was done. His time was done. This was a sword long gone from its own place.

As he looked at it, the anger began. Worthless thing. What use was it, if it couldn’t save Artos at the end? What respect did it deserve now, when only it remained?

_At least it didn’t abandon him_ , a voice comes from inside, and then is when he cries.

It was not sobbing, or sniffling. It was tears that leaked from his eyes in slow rivulets over the unchanged features of his face. The despair tugs at him, and he wants more than anything to follow it.

Not yet.

He looked at the sword again. It deserves better than to be thrown, perhaps.

…

Finally, he’d finished the boat. It was a tiny mockery of a funeral pyre, and he had nothing to light it on fire with, anyway. It had been washed and anointed, in the Roman way. 

There was little else he could do. He knelt by it, whispered something that not even he was sure he’d heard.

“For your service,” he murmured. “Go with honor, and be ready to return when you are called.”

With that, he pushed the boat into the water. It almost capsizes at first, which worries Bedwyr – a fine thing, to send it into the water only to be sent to the bottom! 

It righted itself after that, and continued into the horizon, to places unknown. Perhaps it would end up on the British coast, but he thinks not. Something told him that the sword was the last thing loyal to Artos, and it would heed his call when the time came. Until then, it would be ready.

He sat back down. He knew he would have to make preparations to return to Artos before long. He, too, would wait. Until then, though, he thinks that he can watch the water and wonder if he, too, will be needed.


End file.
